Heritageby Ken Denk

In a city that was never white whether measured by population or the integration of blood and sweat of slaves laid into the wood and stone of finely wrought Antebellum opulence, when a proudly flown banner is a constant, subdermal sneer, muttering, "Know Your Place, Boy", then your heritage is hate.

When the sacred silk on your flagpole is no different, but for paint and patterns, than the soot stained sheets worn by terrorists and cowards in the night, too brave to do the hard work of thinking and growing, when that divergent pigment in the skin is sin in your lily-white, Southern Plight sight, then your heritage is hate.

When black mothers weep and wail, children, husbands, families ripped away centuries ago or today, but you care more for who marries whom than innocent people filling tombs, since they were probably thugs, involved in drugs, or sat their waiting to die, your argument a twangy, ignorant lie and your heritage is hate.

Miss me with that weaksauce whitesplaining, don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining, your vaunted heritage never stood for me and if you were smart, you wouldn't stand for it, step clear of the shadow of the past reaching long fingers from beyond the grave, last shovelful tossed and tamped at a table in Appomatox, don't dig to unearth old treason, there a reason it's dead, let it rest.

Ken Denk from Upstate New York is a father, nurse, and poet who now makes his home in Columbia, SC.

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